


Reinforcement

by Anonymous



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, Possessive Behavior, Toronto Maple Leafs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 04:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12357135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Auston wanted to have his cake and eat it too.





	Reinforcement

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings in the end notes.
> 
> Poor ‘ol Mitch has been having a rough time. The broadcasters here have been hard on him. He lost his stick and wasn’t able to stop a goal against Winnipeg, almost lost the Leafs a goal right after, then kicked a goal in for the Blackhawks on Monday. Willy has had bad luck scoring-wise, but Mitch is getting blamed for stuff left and right. Got the wheels in my head turning.

There was a simple beauty to a good goal. The give of a puck being launched off the end of his stick, and the deafening swoosh the net made when it hit the back.   
The way the crowds jumped up off their seats so quickly it was as if fire was licking at their feet. And at home, the flurry of blue and white, all-consuming and loud, like the city streets.

 

Those were always a constant, but Auston swore he could never taste the same goal twice. The one against Chicago was especially different; he’d been tense enough to cut diamonds with his teeth the whole game, and only relented when he saw the opportunity for a breakaway with a minute to spare on the clock. The resounding urge to lunge forward and capture the net for his own was overwhelming, enough that he swore his senses imploded in on themselves until all he could see was the goalie’s fierce mask glaring back at him, and the inch worth of space careening about his left shoulder, big enough for a puck to squeeze through. Seeing the spotlight dawn on him had been the first shock to his systems because _he’d actually hit his target_ against all odds, and in that moment he could feel even his veins become warm, a special kind of warm, like his family’s house on a winter evening warm, and his world blurred into a collage of blue.

 

He hadn’t just scored a goal then, he’d saved the team from the shootout. _His_ team, or soon to be, at least. He could finally say that aloud without risking dirty looks from his buzzed teammates on mandatory team bonding nights, which was normally a good sign. If his heart could burst with any more pride it’d probably be on the ice by now.

 

Said teammates were now swarming him like hornets, the crowd of buoyant voices only building on his adrenaline. Several of them smacked his helmet in varying degrees of affection, but Bozie and Marty had gone so far as to come up close to yell their thanks into his left ear. He’d given back his gratitude in form of shoulder pats, all the while scanning the numbers on the helmets with one eye for sixteen. For Mitch, who he’d had yet to see throughout the entire game besides for intermissions, which could hardly count.

 

As the whistled blew and the fanfare quieted down the group was forced to disperse and head back to the locker room, though the dismissal did little to quell Auston’s growing frustrations. This was a first for scoring, but it wasn’t the first time in the season, or heck, the preseason, that Mitch had been distant both on and off the rink. In the year they’d played together he’d come to expect a knock on the helmet and a side-hug for his efforts, and if not that, then a slap on the back with his stick when he returned to the bench.

 

What really made it sting was that he’d seen him celebrating JVR’s goals with all the same enthusiasm he’d had since the beginning, in the very same game, no less.

 

They still talked, but it was either bland hockey talk, the kind you did in the locker rooms, or little snips of conversation that, while friendly, were nothing compared to the grievous dumps of compliments and quirks Mitch would bother him with post-game. He would still drive Auston to practices, but no longer belted the radio songs like he used to, and despite going out to alleged “team bonding” outings more often than not, he had yet to call on Auston for a one-on-one night out on the town like he used to. Even his physical appearance had withered, his head bowed a little bit more, his nose scrunched up like a rabbit’s when he played, and a disturbing lack of a certain wide-mouthed smile Auston had fallen in love with. The scariest part was that it all happened in less than a _month_.

 

Most people wouldn’t think twice about the changes, but Auston wasn’t most people. In less than a year he and Mitch had become the heroes of the Toronto, the rookies capable of pulling a team that once hit rock bottom up to the playoffs in a single season. With that knowledge at hand there was no reason to not stake a claim on the elated forward while he still could. What he and Mitch had was special, and he didn’t intend on sharing him. There was nothing Mitch could say to make him stay away, and Auston could not recall doing a single thing to provoke Mitch’s overreaction in the first place. Being second best to JVR, or Bozak, or any other veteran on the team was not an option, not if he could help it.

 

Thus, he arrived at the locker room with a tight frown that chased away any celebrations his teammates might have planned. They broke off in groups, the younger players animated with the same ardour the game had owned, and the remaining few being the more experienced players, who had seen the near loss and winced. One face remained absent. Auston huffed, kicked off his skates, and stuffed his jersey away the second it was off his body, not bothering to hang it up and let it air out. He feared that if he touched it again he might pull until the fabric tore at the seams.

 

Then came the post-game interviews that had been asphyxiating, the corners oozing with reporters and cameras intending to soak in his extraordinary game saving goal. He was still reeling in his hanged expectations when microphones were stuck in his face, the noise pollution ringing in every crevice of his head until he felt he might pass out. His cheeks were burning by the end, his fake smile barely reaching the corners of his mouth, let alone his eyes.

 

The only good thing to come of it was seeing Mitch again, whom he found tucked away behind a stubby man going through some of the plays from the game. Although he was smiling, Auston could see his ears were a dark shade of red, hair tousled from being run through one too many times with a set of nervous fingers. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to shove the lone reporter aside and grab Mitch by the shoulders. Then maybe he could chew him out for leaving him high and dry without a single word all night, or just apologize for whatever mundane thing he did that repelled Mitch away. He didn’t have to though, because they locked eyes seconds later, and he watched as Mitch’s eyes brightened a smidgen, eyebrows raised high enough that his forehead wrinkled.

 

They met halfway, the blue wallpaper blurring with the white until the muted mishmash gave way to Mitch Marner. Mitch was mumbling something into his neck, but Auston had blocked it out, instead focusing on the smell of his shampoo, the familiar tangy scent that he’d come to appreciate having around. Whether it be the dressing room or his condo, he could always smell him from a room away, and he held onto that sense of comfort with both hands.

 

“Good game,” Mitch mumbled, the vibrations from his speech tickling Auston’s Adam’s apple. He made a noise of appreciation in return.

 

It was the accursed media that forced them to part, networks still mining for his two cents and opinion on the game. If he were foolish, he might grab the closest microphone and shout loud enough to hear that they were intruding on hug Auston had been waiting for for days. However, he played the part, tried to smile to the best of his ability when their weak compliments were thrown his way, and let Mitch go.

 

The bouncy octave of Mitch’s voice could still be heard from behind him if he concentrated, but a moment of silence was the last thing the reporters wanted to give. A handful of minutes passed by, questions blurring into one another as he tried to divide his attention equally. Eventually he gave up on trying to keep tabs on whatever Mitch was doing, aware that it was only making his head ache attempting to keep up with both. When management finally started pushing the media out he could barely muster a thanks without croaking.

 

The game had drained almost every last ounce of energy he had, and the media had been out for the scraps, so he left the locker room a shell of his former self. All he wanted to do was get home and pass out on his bed, celebrating being the last possible thing on his mind. Thankfully, Mitch was waiting by the front entrance, tweaking the cuffs of his suit and flashing Auston a nice but contained smile that didn’t make his cheeks puff up. The words he’d wanted to say the whole night were waiting on the tip of his tongue, but all he could manage was a nod as he followed Mitch out, wordless.

 

In theory, the car rides were a staple of their friendship, but from the moment he’d stepped into passenger seat he’d felt everything but welcome. The radio was turned onto some obscure country song that couldn’t be more out of place in the traffic of the city. If Mitch were singing it might be redeemable, but there wasn’t a peep out of him. He stayed nice and polite in the driver’s seat, leg bouncing up and down on the pedal whenever they hit a red light as he pointedly made sure he wasn’t caught looking at Auston.

 

He left that car scratching at an invisible itch in his arm that he swore was the physical embodiment of his frustration. By the end of the night his forearm was bright red, and there were countless white lines weaving up and around from how his nails had bit into the skin.

 

Hyman had looked at his arms the next morning with concern, but Auston paid him no mind and continued waving his practice jersey up and down to get the lint off the sleeve. It was none of his business anyway, not when he should be focusing his interest on what was going to be one hell of a practice. As always, it ended up being a godawful test of commitment and sheer will. The offensive players were tossing around pucks like they were made of air as Gardiner and Zaitsev were drilled to hell and back, their faces stained a cherry red colour and their laboured breathing easily heard from anywhere in the rink. They weren’t the only ones; Babs clearly had no intentions of letting them repeat the same mistakes on Wednesday, and an hour later Auston’s back was slick with sweat and his heart was throbbing in the confines of his chest.

 

Once in a while he passed Mitch and his linemates, but was only granted a second to watch the three juggle passes up and down the rink before Willy tugged on his arm and led him away. On one such instance he could faintly hear Bozie joking with JVR about some obscure play before Babs shut him up, and there was no mistaking Mitch beside him, laughing too.

 

He decided he was beginning to hate the sight of the number forty-two.

 

Finally, during shootout drills, Auston had had enough. Using his stick as a hook, he leaned forward and grabbed Mitch’s waist with the blade and tugging back. It was a hard enough yank that Mitch nearly lost his balance and wobbled unsteadily on his skates until Auston could collect him.

 

“Hey Marns,” he began, tapping his fingers against the sixteen stitched on his friend’s jersey, “you wanna grab a bite to eat after practice?”

 

“Uh,” he looked over Auston’s shoulder and squinted. It took every bit of self-control he had left to not give in and follow his look, though he didn’t deny he could feel the seeds of jealousy stirring inside his chest once again. “I’m not sure, maybe? I want to cram in some more practice before our next game, just so I don’t, uh, screw up again,” he replied, bringing Auston back from his thoughts.

 

A thick lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed it down. “Alright, just don’t run yourself ragged.” The line moved and Auston followed, one arm still on Mitch. He was half-afraid that if he let go it’d be the last time Mitch would come close.

 

“I might have to, if I want to keep up with you. Nice goal, by the way.”

 

“I know right? I was surprised you didn’t blow my phone up again.” He plastered a smug look on his face, one so over the top that Mitch couldn’t help but curve the ends of his lips up into a tiny smile.

 

“Yeah well we’re not rookies anymore. I guess you could say I’m trying to be mature.” He puffed his chest out, but only managed to look like an overcompensating bird.

 

“Good luck with that.” The line moved again and Mitch was up next. “Do think about lunch though. Maturity only goes so far if you look like a twig.”

 

“Don’t worry, if not you, I’m sure Bozie will make me eat my weight in nutrition bars after our ice time,” he laughed, only interrupted by the puck being quite literally shot into his possession. He was gone too quickly to see Auston’s smile grow into a deeply unsettling frown.

 

Auston spent the rest of practice trying not to glare at Bozak.

 

Back in the locker room, he found himself waiting by the door with hopeful eyes. He couldn’t help feeling elated when he heard the signature clicking noises coming from skate blades, only to let himself down more with every arrival. Willy had stuck around too, watching Auston with a bored expression that hardened whenever players side-stepped Auston on their way inside. Eventually he sighed and kicked the back of Auston’s calf with his shoe.

 

“From the looks of it, he ain’t coming,” Willy said, taking out his phone from the back pocket of his sweatpants, “oh well.” His nonchalant tone only fired Auston up more. Though Willy was seated at the edge of the bench, Auston found he couldn’t sit still, and paced back and forth with his posture slouched over in defeat.

 

“No, not ‘oh well’,” Auston replied, “he’s decided he’d rather practice with Bozak than come with us.” Willy shrugged, wetting his lips with a swipe of his tongue.

 

“Yikes, well I don’t envy him. I hate practice as it is, but overtime is worse.”

 

Auston almost spoke his mind then and there, but a thump from the other side of the room was a quick reminder that they weren’t alone. He looked over his shoulder, only seeing Kadri, who was neatly packing away his equipment, and then returned to Willy with a hushed voice. “I’m surprised you’re not, y’know, bothered by it.”

 

“Bothered by what, him practicing? I don’t give a shit man.”

 

“By him practicing with Bozak and Riemsdyk specifically. He didn’t stray an inch from them at practice and he’s been with them, and only them, all week.”

 

“I didn’t notice,” he said, biting his lip when Auston bristled, “as I said, I don’t care who he practices or hangs with. If he’s playing, and he’s playing well, he can become a social recluse for all I care.” He knew it was the exhaustion talking; Willy would be the first one concerned when Mitch stopped singing bad karaoke in the locker room, but the thought of it stirred a toxic mixture of intrigue in his stomach.

 

“Look, I’m just saying that he’s been very standoff-ish since Winnipeg. Well, maybe that’s not the right word," he clucked his tongue, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek, "he’s spending a lot of time with them, more than he does with me.”

 

Willy punched in a couple keys, deterring his attention from Auston's dilemma. “Oh, that’s what you’re getting at. Listen Matts, he’s definitely spending a lot of time with them, but he still cares about you. He's just experimenting with other people."

 

“Yeah, but we’re supposed to be close friends, and he's blatantly favouring them over me.”

 

“So what,” he picked at the edge of his phone case where the rubber was peeling away, “you don’t want him to spend time with his linemates because you don’t consider them your friends?”

 

“Well-” he began, before Willy rose to his feet with a bored look. Even though his eyes were hooded, Auston could see his they were concentrating on his face. The phone that had previously occupied his hands was shoved into his front pocket.

 

“I don't know if you’ve noticed, but Mitch has been really down since the game. He thinks it’s his fault that we came close to losing to the Blackhawks, and the Rangers didn’t help; that’s why he’s out there. He wants to improve his chemistry with Bozie and JVR so that they don’t make the same mistakes later when we face New Jersey," he said matter-of-factly.

 

The back of his neck pricked at the knowledge that Mitch had told _Willy_ and not _him_ about those insecurities, but it wasn’t like he could tell Willy that. He blinked away whatever was showing on his face, and approached Willy head on.

 

“I think it’s simple, they need to improve their coordination and defence, same problem as last year. I can understand staying behind in practice,” he gestured at the door, “but he’s been with them almost every day of the week since the preseason ended, and he won’t talk to me about it. That’s a bit excessive.”

 

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s clear you can’t survive a week without having at least one prom night with Marns.” A shadow of a smirk peered out from under Willy’s lips, and Auston tried to glare it away. A week _was_ a big deal. Not because of the length, he’d spent a whole summer away from Mitch and did just fine, but because Mitch was using the time to get closer to other hockey players. He wasn’t at home lounging on the couch with a controller in hand, but laughing off their losses with two people that weren’t him at some bar playing reels of their victories on tiny television screens. He couldn’t possibly know what they were talking about, and unlike with Marty, he didn’t know if Mitch’s admiration went beyond hero worship.

 

It was stupid to think, Mitch wasn’t that careless. But, he was losing some control, and he didn’t like it. It was like sinking in quicksand.

 

“I’m being serious Willy.”

 

“So am I,” he replied, a little too soon. “You gotta give him some space. He’s not playing on our line, heck, you and him don’t share nearly as much time on ice together like we do, so it shouldn't even bother you in the first place. Watching and playing with you can only take him so far. If he’s going to improve he needs to branch out, throw stuff at the wall and see what sticks.” He made a throwing motion with his hand, as if he were about to send a scrunched up ball of paper sailing over Auston's head.

 

Auston huffed, “I just think he’d be better off playing with us. He’s perfect on the right wing.” _And by me_ , he thought.

 

“We don’t have much of a choice. I know deep down you want him to be good, so do I. I also know that you love playing with him, and again, me too, but you can’t want him to improve and then complain that he’s trying to patch the problems with his linemates. Last I checked, he’s not telepathic, and he sure isn’t omnipotent. He needs closeness with the people he’s going to be playing with for the next oncoming years of his career.” A stampede of blue walked in just as he finished, and the words froze on Willy’s tongue, eyes darting over to check and see if Mitch was among them.

 

The huffing and grunting had revealed Gardiner without Auston having to turn his head. “I just- I’m afraid our dynamic is going to change. That he’s going to favour their company over ours,” he admitted, feeling naked under the scrutiny. Willy wrinkled his nose.

 

“You can’t know that from a week and three games, but whatever. Take it from me, he won’t change,” he half-whispered, half-shouted, “he may not be beside you, but he’ll be there on the bench to hit you over the head with his stick, and hey, you always have the car rides. He’s going to change, the question is, will you let him?”

 

He opened his mouth to reply, but shut it immediately after. Gardiner was untying his skates now, and when his thoughts came tumbling out in the form of words, he couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t be accusatory towards him and the other veterans for robbing him of Mitch. That cauldron of emotions was bubbling over, jealousy becoming heir apparent.

 

Willy, who was waiting for a response, must have seen the cascade of emotions on Auston’s face and backed out, because when he blinked, he was gone. There wasn’t even a swing of the door to signal whether he’d headed home or just moved to another room. It was for the better, as Auston was sure anything he tried to cough up would sound selfish and possessing.

 

But could Willy blame him for being worried? Back in their rookie season the three of them were symbolically tied together on every front. One accomplishment became three. Now, however, there was no guarantee it would last. Now that Willy had mentioned it, Mitch was falling behind, stumbling over his skates and losing them valuable plays. When Auston scored it was Auston’s goal on Willy’s assist, Mitch nowhere in the picture. When he was, it was some form of public slander, that while tame, was just another reason for Mitch to want to hide.

 

It was a punch to the chest, but if the talk with Willy had done one thing, it had made those emotions clear. Mitch wasn’t a rookie anymore, he had no obligation to be Auston’s best friend anymore. He didn’t even trust him enough to talk about his losses. If he didn’t do something, he might not get that friendship back.

 

Numb, he made his way outside towards his car, insecurities buzzing around his head like mosquitos and only becoming more apparent as he thought harder about the problem at hand. The drive home was uneventful, the radio drowned out by the engine and the dings from his phone alerting him to activity on one of his many social media accounts. In retrospect, he remembered very little about that drive, except that he took the long route home, purposely not looking for his condo’s looming roof. He’d never been so conflicted to see that roof, and the emptiness inside, in his whole life.

 

As luck would have it, his keys jammed in the door three times before he could successfully open it, and by then he was aggravated on every front. He quite nearly threw his phone down on the bed and walked in a circle to blow off the anticipation bubbling inside of his skin, the same itch from the night prior that he couldn’t reach. All the while, the dings persisted, to the point where it made more sense to put his phone on do not disturb as opposed to letting the notifications pile up as he calmed down. What was supposed to be a quick option change turned into a quick scavenge of what he’d missed in the last hour.

 

The online articles chronicling last night’s game had already popped up left and right, Twitter an incomprehensible mess of fans screaming their praises. He had thumbed past them without a second thought, brain too overworked to not go cross-eyed at the headlines and hashtags. Anxious to see if what Willy had said was true, he typed Mitch’s name into Google and pressed the news tab especially hard until a row of articles piled up, a majority of them from Sportsnet, with a few outliers chipped in by personal blogs and fan pages. While not negative, they were critical, and he was beginning to get a bigger sense behind Mitch’s slump, and why he was drifting away from the three headed monster image they’d owned up to last year. For the sake of getting out of his sweat-soaked gear, he closed the tab and put his phone face down, changing into one of his casual shirts and collapsing onto the bed hard enough for the mattress to bounce.

 

And as he lay there, he thought. He thought terrible thoughts about leaving Mitch behind, Mitch being sent down to the Marlies, Mitch being traded if he didn’t start showing results. In every one of those scenarios he went to the veterans for help, as one normally would, but slowly pulled away from Auston, likely to avoid getting hurt. It was his own fantasy, but he found himself clawing at the bed just imagining a team without Mitch glued to his side. If he was going through a second year slump _Auston_ should be the one assuring him.

 

From those sad thoughts stemmed plans on how to fix the internal problem without literally requiring he go up to Mitch and tell him the truth: that he didn’t like Mitch spending extended periods of time with players that weren’t him. He couldn’t just ask his teammates to leave Mitch alone, he didn’t have the authority to sway them like that yet, but if they didn’t know they were doing it, well, that was different. Either way, it was an abuse of the trust Mitch had graciously given him, no matter how Auston went about it.

 

He grunted, wrapping his arms around the closest pillow and tugging it to his chest so that he could squeeze it hard. It would be a different but long process, and he risked his own standing in the team by doing it.

 

But it was for Mitch. That had to mean something. Auston had seen glimpses of a perfect future; the captain’s mark embellished over his heart, the wide array of Leaf fans pouring into the arena, and Mitch Marner by his side, wearing a jersey fitted with a giant white A. It only made sense, they had been in this together since their rookie year, and he couldn’t imagine sharing the limelight with anyone else. Or sharing Mitch with anyone else, especially if they planned on interfering with his relationship with Auston.

 

By the time the game with New Jersey had rolled around he’d been thinking about possible solutions for a day and a half. He hadn’t left his condo except to buy groceries, and had ignored any incoming messages that weren’t attached to Mitch’s name in favour of scheming. The obvious, kind solution that had surfaced more than once was to talk to Mitch that night and help him analyze what he needed to work on outside of Babs’ instructions so he could feel equal to Willy and him. But what good would that do, when he’d be taking the knowledge back to his buddies? Sure, it might mean Mitch would get some of his self-confidence back, and with it, some time with Auston, but alternatively, it might just make him more independent. As long as _that_ was a possibility Auston wouldn’t consider it.

 

Deep down, he wouldn’t deny he wanted control, _craved_ having Mitch by his side. It was for the better, if he really thought about it. He was going places, likely next in line for the captain title, and anyone associated with him would benefit too. Mitch would thank him later for intervening when he did.

 

His mind made up, he carefully typed possible things to say on his phone’s notes as he walked out from his house. They were all stiff conversation starters and accusations, never things you’d say out of the blue, but he’d come to accept that he’d have to be careful, pace himself, and let the lingering damage do the work for him. It was hard, especially when the first thing he heard when he entered the locker room was Mitch’s laughter, followed by a deeper voice scrambling to tell the remainder of what sounded like a long, but humorous story.

 

He didn’t have a negative opinion on Bozak, but at that moment all he wanted to do was heft Mitch over his shoulder and tear him straight out of the older man’s grasp. He wanted to push Mitch down into his stall and _just keep him there_. The raw anger made every action of his over-exaggerated, something as simple as pulling a jersey over his head made a challenge. In the background he could hear Mitch talking, the familiar chuckles fuelling the fire until he couldn’t take it anymore.

 

“Mitchy,” he called out, loud enough for Mitch to hear, but not quite yelling, “hey Mitch, c’mere.” It stopped Mitch mid-sentence, and after glancing back at Bozak and Brownie in apology, he made his way over, balance offset by having one skate on, one off. It made him look even smaller in comparison, and a smile threatened to stretch across Auston’s mouth.

 

“‘Ey Matts, what’s up?” he piped, standing close, but not close enough for Auston’s tastes. His fingers curled inward, aching to pull him close.

 

“Just wanted to talk to you.” Mitch paused for a moment, then stuck his tongue out.

 

“Yeah? What about?” he asked, fiddling with the placement of his jersey over his padded shoulders.

 

Auston looked up, noticed that while the team was bustling about, no one was paying attention to them. He looked back at Mitch’s inquisitive face, and forced himself to smile despite his jealousy.

 

“I just wanted to wish you good luck out there, courtesy of me.” Mitch snickered, and landed a playful punch to the shoulder, about the pain equivalent of a butterfly’s kiss.

 

“Gee, thanks.”

 

“But in all seriousness, good luck. Willy told me you’ve been beating yourself up over the last few games.” Mitch’s weak laugh trailed off, his lips pressing firmly together. _Definitely a sore spot,_ Auston filed away.

 

“Yeah, well, it happens. What’re gonna do,” he said.

 

“Well, you can talk to me for starters,” Auston said, “you’ve kept your distance since Winnipeg, but you don’t have to put yourself through Bozie’s lectures to make yourself feel better. I’ll listen.”

 

“Oh come on,” Mitch said, smile threatening to return, “they’re not _that_ bad.”

 

“Not that bad? I guess it’s just you man. I always feel like an idiot when they tear into me.” He scratched his chin, and watched the team start to make their way outside. Mitch, who only had one skate on, took this as a sign to return to his stall, Auston in tow.

 

“Really? I find they’re more uplifting than anything. Feels good to have someone looking out for you.”

 

Enough players were gone now that he could get away with being risky. He cleared his throat, “I was always under the impression they were intimidated by us.” Mitch hummed, forcing his socked foot into his skate and tugging hard on the laces to tighten them.

 

“Maybe it’s just you then,” he said, “since you’re so glorious and all.”

 

“Mhm, but you know how it is. A bit of envy at the new talent, it can be dangerous.”

 

“Marns, Matts, you got two minutes!” a voice crowed from the other side of the room, probably Marty, who Auston could remember coming in late.

 

“Dangerous,” Mitch laughed, “you think so?”

 

“Yeah, Hymie was talking about it just the other day. I mean think about it, we've been upheld more than anyone else on the team, why wouldn't they be jealous?” Part of his stomach twisted at manipulating the team dynamic, but he shot those thoughts down before they could fester. The locker room, as open as it appeared to be, hid a lot of secrets. There was no way to prove there hadn't been a few wistful chirps here and there, so it wasn't _technically_ lying.

 

“You're getting cockier every day," Mitch said, grabbing his stick and twirling it around in his hands. "Have you actually heard them say things or are you just being paranoid?"

 

"Yeah I have, they’ve said something for all of us,” He waved him off. “But it’s nothing serious. Y’know, sometimes they wanna put you down to deal with your ego.”

 

Mitch laughed weakly, “I don’t see why they would think that. I haven’t heard anything.”

 

“Yeah, it’s a mystery,” he chuckled, “though I don’t think they’d pick on you; you’re not seeing too much success.” Mitch’s face darkened, but Auston couldn’t hold his tongue.

 

“Mhm.”

 

“Though I guess we can’t blame them for wanting to keep you where you are. They’re scoring a heck of a lot more now without you taking the spotlight,” he chuckled, as did Mitch, who didn't seem to have processed the hidden bait. Auston wasn't worried yet, Mitch tended to overthink even the littlest of things, and from the way his smile slid off his face when he thought Auston wasn’t looking, it was probably occupying his mind right now.

 

He didn’t dwell on it, because dwelling on it would make it his intentions obvious. Rather, he did what he always did, gave Mitch a hand and helped him up, patted him on the back, and mentally prepared himself for the ongoing noise of the ACC.

 

Warm up was standard, Freddie looked pretty energized, and that usually meant he would pull some good saves for the team. The rest of the team followed suite, feeding off the positive energy the fans were excreting and transforming it into some fierce shots on net.

 

Mitch dawdled by the corners, skating passively behind the net and taking a few shots when the goalies started a proper warm up. Auston made sure to keep one eye on him at all times, half-heartedly following through with his pre-game ritual in the process. Unexpectedly, he didn’t have to make time to approach Mitch, because after a short game of keep away with Hymie, he was pulling up beside him, helmet in hand.

 

Auston could already see the doubt twinkling in his eyes, which, while good for him, might not be the best emotion for Mitch to be grasping onto during the game. He tried to make up for it with a pat on the back.

 

“You’ll do fine out there tonight Marns, trust me. Your shots look beautiful,” He inclined his head towards Freddie’s show of defence at the net. Mitch followed his look and sighed.

 

“Thanks,” he said, and Auston patted him again, hoping it would satisfy that need to touch him. It didn’t, but Mitch did deflate a little bit, comforted by Auston’s presence.

 

“And if you have any doubts, you don’t need to scurry around, just come talk to me. I’ve always had your back, and I always will.” Mitch nodded again, eyes downcast. If they weren’t in the public eye he would be tempted to step a bit closer. Maybe catch a stronger whiff of Mitch’s body spray and cover it with his own for good measure (because wow, it could be strong). If he didn’t have a reputation and newly made plan to maintain, he could see himself easily being seduced by the idea.

 

“Yeah, about that,” Mitch said, “I wanted to ask you something but like, don’t get mad.” He reached up to scratch his face with his glove, but Auston pulled it down.

 

“I won’t, I promise.”

 

Mitch sighed, “I- ugh. I’m sorry. What you said about intimidation, about players being envious about being the best, well...” he trailed off, flexing his knee to keep his legs moving.

 

The admission was barely audible over the arena’s background noise, but Auston could still feel his eyebrows hitch up.

 

“Are they saying things about you Mitch?” he asked, trying to let his voice bleed with false concern. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome, especially if it meant Mitch found solace in talking to Auston about it.

 

“No no, like,” he chewed at his mouthguard, “never mind, we shouldn’t do this here.” His nose was scrunched up like it was when they were having a particularly bad game. Auston would find it cute, if there wasn’t a bigger issue at hand. Because if Mitch wouldn’t tell him now, later he could be more reluctant than ever.

 

“Please, tell me,” he pleaded, moving his hand to Mitch’s shoulder and squeezing.

 

“It’s just, do you think I’m pulling my weight? I don’t want to be the weak link, and both you and Willy have been amazing. It’s only the beginning of the season but I’ve managed to do nothing right and Bozie keeps telling me to keep doing what I’m doing but it’s not working and-“ Oh.

 

“You kidding Marns? We’re three games in, relax,” he smiled, “I don’t know what I’d do without you. The vets can chirp you behind your back all they want but you’ll always have me, and trust me, you’ll get some good plays. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.” Mitch puffed out a breath of air in response, and Auston removed his glove. He could see the man’s eyes look over his shoulder, same as he did during practice, but this time he looked less sure.

 

“Yeah,” he mumbled, barely audible over the crowd, “thanks.”

 

“Anytime,” Auston smiled, for once feeling over accomplished about something that wasn’t hockey. He leaned forward and knocked his helmet’s visor against Mitch’s forehead before watching the smaller player back away and head back to the bench. The anthems would start soon, and then the long-awaited game. Maybe this one would continue the streak.

 

He watched as Mitch drained his water, shuffling on his skates as he kept his head down. It was something, a start. Like working on wrist shots. He’d just need to keep working at it. It would just need time.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for manipulation on Auston’s part of Mitch’s relationships. It's very mild, but he does mess with the friendship and trust of Mitch and his line for selfish reasons and intends to continue this practice once he's assured Mitch will listen to him.


End file.
